


A Matter of Getting

by forthegreatergood



Series: A Matter of Asking [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegreatergood/pseuds/forthegreatergood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint renegotiates his arrangement with Phil.</p>
<hr/><p>“So, what else did you want to discuss?”</p>
<p>Clint swallowed.  Go-time.  He felt like he was at the crest of a rollercoaster, just starting to look over the brink.  There was nothing for it but to take the plunge and find out if Phil was willing to let him get him off.  If it was too much to ask.  If he could even get hard for Clint.  Asking for head was expected; everybody wanted to get off.  Asking to give head, on the other hand....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All characters property of Marvel.
> 
> Not beta-read. Please post any noticed errors in the comments, and they'll get fixed.

Clint fidgeted nervously. He probably shouldn’t have had that third cup of coffee, he thought. He definitely shouldn’t have had the fourth or fifth cups. _You just open your mouth and say...._ He twisted a napkin in his hands, and powdered sugar drifted from it to settle on his lap. 

It was easy for Bobbi to say. She’d had what, five handlers at this point? It was a high number, to be sure, and she hadn’t particularly clicked with any of them. But every time she’d managed a cordial, professional, fully-functional relationship, and the transfers had been bureaucratic, not personal. As far as SHIELD management was concerned, she was the sort of agent who could roll with anything. Specialist Clinton Francis Barton, marksman extraordinaire? Coulson was his seventh. And every time he’d been transferred, he’d been lucky it hadn’t been a discharge. His instincts were superb, and his aim was better, and that made up for a lot in terms of insubordination and ‘personality conflicts,’ but there were limits. He twisted the napkin harder. No one had come right out and said it, but Coulson had been his last shot.

Clint checked his watch. Ten minutes until his appointment with Phil. He still didn’t know what had possessed him to come early. Or rather, he didn’t know what had possessed him to drink half a pot of coffee, which had led directly to him pacing and fretting and deciding that the best place to continue pacing and fretting had been the waiting room outside Phil’s office block. He threw the napkin away and brushed off his pants. Bobbi was right about him being an idiot. 

Coulson had taken him on, made no mention whatsoever of his alternately brilliant and catastrophic record up to that point, and spent the ensuing three months quietly evaluating him. He’d turned up at the range when Clint was target-shooting. He’d observed almost every practice run and simulation and training exercise Clint had participated in, and he’d checked out the video footage of the ones he’d had to miss. The amount of care and attention he’d devoted to the milk-runs they’d pulled during his probationary period was more normally associated with presidential security details. It had just about driven him up a wall, especially since he’d been able to get a fairly good read on his previous handlers by the end of the first week or so while Coulson had remained a closed book. He’d felt like he was playing a high-stakes poker game against a particularly cagey robot. And then...Coulson had clearly decided that he could trust him. The near-constant monitoring had dropped to spot-checks. The milk-runs had been replaced with real missions. He’d defrosted a little, started letting it show when he was annoyed or pleased or worried or amused. Clint had slowly started trusting him, too.

Clint took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. Phil had accepted the transfer in spite of his record, had put a phenomenal amount of time and analysis into the question of keeping him on, and then had continued to sink what was, in retrospect, a disproportionate amount of energy and patience into dealing with him during their first year together. Phil hadn’t thrown him out of his room when he’d first asked for a blowjob. Phil had even refrained from shooting him when he’d been sent to eliminate Natasha and had instead turned up at the safe house with her in tow. Phil was not going to cut him loose over a simple request like this. He might say no, but he wasn’t going to be, as Bobbi had put it, terminally offended. If he repeated that to himself another hundred or so times, he might even begin to believe it.

Clint sat back down and closed his eyes. He needed to calm down. Any sort of realistic assessment of the situation told him that he was running very little risk. The night he’d been too wired and on edge to sit down, let alone sleep, after too long in the field, too many missions one after the other, too much chaos, the night Bobbi had finally blown up at him and told him to go have Coulson take care of him before she chloroformed him just to get some respite from the sound of him pacing, the night he’d actually been horny and reckless enough to take her advice...that night he’d been running a risk. Given his history of problems with authority, asking his direct superior to suck his cock had been an objectively unwise decision. That Phil had obliged him without further comment, or bothering to take off his coat, and then told him to get some shut-eye had put a surreal gloss on the whole incident. This would just be a particularly frank conversation that might not go the way he hoped. He didn’t have much to lose.

Except any illusion he might have had that Phil was actually even remotely attracted to him. He looked at his watch. Five minutes. Just enough time to drive himself completely nuts with the idea that Coulson regarded going down on him as yet another chore generated by a problem agent whose ROI was never quite as good as expected.

“Damn it,” he muttered, grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“Having a bad day, agent?” Phil asked mildly. Clint almost jumped out of his skin. Phil usually had to work at it to sneak up on him.

“No. Just a little distracted, that’s all.” He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“You’re early.”

Clint nodded and poured himself a cup of water from the cooler. “I was free.”

“Come on in, then. I blocked out the time you asked for, but this really shouldn’t take long.”

He sucked down a gulp of water. “There was something else I wanted to ask about, too.”

Phil arched an eyebrow but didn’t demand clarification, and he followed him into his office. Clint settled awkwardly into the chair, trying to remember everything he’d gone over earlier. He could keep his cool and maintain his cover with a literal gun in his face. Having a conversation with an agent he trusted and respected should not be proving to be such a challenge. Phil sat down and flipped open a file.

“Your numbers from the last mission are good, Barton. All objectives accomplished, some even ahead of schedule. Minimal property damage. Minimal equipment damage. No civilian involvement. Very clean. Given the difficulty of the situation and the number of unexpected complications, I am suitably impressed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Clint tried to keep from beaming. Phil wasn’t stingy with praise, but it had to be earned.

He paged through the file, nodding to himself. “You’ve read my evaluation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything you’d like to comment or expand on, per my evaluation?”

“No, sir.”

Phil checked off a pair of boxes on the last page and scribbled his signature and the date on the last line before passing it across the desk. “Keep up the good work, then.”

Clint rifled numbly through the copies of his report, Coulson’s report, Nat’s report, and the paperwork associated with his portion of the operation. Everything was in order, of course. Everything was always in order with Phil. He filled in the line above Phil’s signature, signed it himself, and handed it back.

“I’ll try.”

Phil’s lips quirked up for the briefest of moments.

“Sir,” Clint added.

“So, what else did you want to discuss?”

Clint swallowed. Go-time. He felt like he was at the crest of a rollercoaster, just starting to look over the brink. There was nothing for it but to take the plunge and find out if Phil was willing to let him get him off. If it was too much to ask. If he could even get hard for Clint. Asking for head was expected; everybody wanted to get off. Asking to give head, on the other hand....

“Uh, I wanted to talk about what we’ve been doing. The, um, extracurriculars.”

“All right.” Coulson’s tone and expression had gone abruptly neutral. Clint’s stomach tightened.

“It’s been great. It’s been really, really great. But, uh, I was thinking--” He coughed, clearing his throat. “I was thinking that it would also be great if, uh, I could maybe return the favor sometime.”

“I see.” Clint searched his face for any sign of _anything_. Anything but the unreadable poker face. He could feel the color creeping up his cheeks. “You understand that it’s under no circumstances expected of you.”

“Yes,” he blurted, then stopped himself and began again. “Yes, I understand that. But I would--I’d _like_ to. I want to. I mean, _if_ it’s something you’d also like. If you’d prefer I didn’t, please consider the request formally and completely withdrawn.”

“That won’t be necessary, agent,” Phil said gently, his lips curling into a small, comforting smile.

Clint exhaled, letting go of the breath he hadn’t quite realized he’d been holding. Relief washed over him. “Thank you, sir.”


	2. Chapter 2

Clint examined himself in the dingy mirror, checking for any spots he’d missed shaving. He looked as exhausted as he should feel, but he was too keyed up to even think of sleep. There had been too many close calls on the last run for him to really relax until they were back on base, fully debriefed and reassured that nothing had escaped notice. Being stuck in a cheap airport-adjacent motel on a layover sixteen hours from a final report counted as “safe,” but it sure as hell didn’t count as “done.”

His eyes slid right, glancing at the thin wall as if he might be able to see through it. He could hear the muted noise of a television on the other side, a low and steady drone that could have been the weather channel or a farm report. It had been turned on a few minutes after the shower had been turned off. Phil was trying to unwind. Natasha’s room had been silent since perhaps a half-hour after they’d checked in; she had trouble sleeping on planes and had probably been out like a light as soon as she’d done a security sweep and kicked off her shoes. Clint rested his forehead against the cold glass for a few moments. He couldn’t sleep. Phil was awake. They had time to kill. It couldn’t hurt to ask, could it?

He rubbed a towel over his head one last time to get rid of any lingering dampness from the shower and picked at his shirt. Barely acceptable, he thought, but they were the cleanest clothes he had at the moment. He stretched, trying to dispel a sudden case of nerves and feeling vaguely ridiculous. It wasn’t a date. He needed to look presentable in terms of a late-night hotel-room quickie, not a congressional inquiry. Clint shook his head and checked himself over one last time. Seeing nothing too objectionable, he took a deep breath and padded down the hall to rap firmly but without too much force on the door to Phil’s room.

After a few seconds of nothing, he wondered if Phil hadn’t fallen asleep after all and was relieved he hadn’t knocked louder. The door opened suddenly, and Phil scanned the hallway around him, his shoulders set and his eyes alert.

“Something up, Barton?” he asked softly.

“Yeah, but not like that,” Clint said quickly, holding up a hand. 

“Of course.” Phil barely missed a beat, a trace of amusement flickering across his face as he stood back to let Clint in. “It _would_ be ‘not like that’ at this hour, wouldn’t it?”

Clint blushed. “If you were just turning in, I could go.”

“No, I wasn’t. I couldn’t sleep either,” Phil said, shaking his head and shutting the door. Clint managed a brief, appreciative look out of the corner of his eye at the way Phil’s t-shirt and pajama pants clung to him. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Phil dressed so casually before.

“I was thinking about what we talked about at my last evaluation,” he told him, working to keep any hint of hesitation out of his voice. This would be new territory for both of them.

“Would that be the minimal property damage or the lack of civilian involvement?” Phil asked blandly, turning off the tv. Clint choked out a startled laugh, and his blush deepened.

“That would be neither,” he murmured. “Do you think, um, I could get a drink?”

Phil tilted his head, his expression betraying his concern. “Barton, you understand that I don’t _expect_ anything from you, right?” he said carefully. “Nothing happens unless you want it to happen. You could turn around and walk back out right now with zero repercussions if you want to.”

“Do you want me to?” Clint demanded, swallowing. He wished, not for the first time, that he’d managed to crack the code of Phil’s body language.

“That’s not what’s at issue here.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Clint finally snapped, running his fingers through his hair. “It cuts both ways, Phil. I do want this. I want it very badly. But I’m not okay with doing anything _you’re_ not okay with or feel obligated to do because I’m needed in the field or whatever. Can we....” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. “Can we--just for tonight--forget the chain of command, and the handbook, and regulations, and incentives, and all of that bullshit? I just want an honest answer. Please?”

“The chain of command and the regulations are there whether we’d like to forget about them or not, Barton,” Phil sighed, “but, yes, I can give you an honest answer. I am perfectly okay with what you’ve asked for. I am. I only need you to understand that me being your handler and you having made a verbal declaration of interest _in no way_ translates to any sort of obligation on your part.”

“A verbal declaration of interest,” Clint repeated. “See, this is why I wanted that drink. You say things like that, and then I get too hot and bothered to think straight.”

Phil rolled his eyes and turned away, a look of fondness softening his face in a way that made Clint’s heart beat a little faster. He opened the minibar and paused, and Clint took the opportunity to gawk a little. The worn jersey knit hugged Phil’s skin, highlighting his wiry frame and the bit of extra padding he had compared to the specialists Clint worked with. It was an appealing mix of strength and comfort that had Clint wishing he could spend the night curled around him. Phil glanced up, caught him in the act of staring, and cleared his throat.

“Uh, is Jim Beam okay?” he asked.

“Sure, why--” The question died in Clint’s throat when he saw the fridge’s contents. It was stocked with nothing but dozens of tiny Jim Beam bottles. “Wow. I guess you really must have struck them as a bourbon man.”

“One of the very few types of liquor that I genuinely do not care for,” Phil commented, tapping his fingers on the table. His lips twisted slightly in disappointment.

“Oh?” Clint brushed past him to retrieve a bottle, getting too close and lingering too long for Phil to mistake it for an accident. “Tequila?”

“Tequila’s fine.” Phil tossed him a tumbler. “But let’s just say too much absinthe and the Carcassonne cityscape are a spectacularly bad match.”

“If I ask, am I gonna get told I don’t have clearance for that story?”

Phil smiled thinly. “I’ve already said too much.”

Clint grinned at him and took a sip, letting the whiskey bite his tongue before swallowing it. So far, so good, he told himself. He put the glass down and reached for Phil, his hands brushing lightly over his waist and drifting to his back. Phil relaxed against him, and he tightened his hold, pulling him closer. He rested his head on Phil’s shoulder, his lips pressed against his throat, and closed his eyes for a moment, soaking in the heat from Phil’s skin and enjoying the way his body was hard without being sharp or unyielding. He slipped his hands under the shirt and smiled to himself at the feel of bare skin. 

He’d never been able to bring himself to untuck Phil’s button-downs or unbuckle his belt, but the loosely-tied drawstring and the t-shirt were practically begging to be stripped off. Clint let his hands wander, running his palms over smooth skin and tracing the occasional furrow of a scar with his fingertips. He finally settled back on Phil’s hips and ran the pad of one thumb over the roughened patch where Phil’s sidearm rested. He shivered in Clint’s arms, and Clint nipped at his shoulder.

“Can I take your shirt off?” he asked, kissing his way back up Phil’s neck. The lingering taste of the liquor mingled with the taste of Phil’s skin, and his tongue was running over the gooseflesh his breath had raised, and his cock was half-hard with it all even before Phil nodded.

“Really?” Clint raised a hand to cup his face, delighted by the flush on his cheeks and the darkness of his eyes.

“Really,” Phil answered gently, snorting. “Do you need an engraved invitation, Barton?”

“No, sir,” the archer said sharply, a wicked gleam lighting his eyes. 

He pulled the shirt off and tossed it over a chair, cautious of any sign of resistance in Phil’s frame. He didn’t find it. Clint’s gaze raked over Phil’s torso, and then he leaned close, kissing him apprehensively even as he crowded him back against the wall. He rested one hand on Phil’s bare chest and let the other drift across the curve of his stomach, pausing at the waistband of his pants. When Phil made no move to stop him, he slowly moved lower, eventually brushing over Phil’s cock. He tensed and groaned into Clint’s mouth, and Clint kissed him more deeply, running his fingertips along the hard length. His cock throbbed as Phil’s hands tightened on his back, urging him closer. He pulled back just enough to see Phil’s face contract with need as he stroked him again, the thin cotton of his pants growing damp where they rubbed against the head of his cock.

“Can we move this to the bed?” he breathed. 

He wanted Phil spread out and moaning under him, losing himself in pleasure. After a moment, Phil nodded, and Clint thought he looked half-gone already. He bit down a triumphant grin and guided him to the bed, unwilling to break contact for the brief seconds it took to cross the room. Clint pushed him down gently and herded him further up the mattress, mesmerized by the way Phil’s blush spread from his face to his neck and chest and wanting to trace the path with his tongue. He hooked his fingers under Phil’s waistband and tugged, waiting for permission before he pulled them down farther than they’d slipped already. He considered it for what seemed like an eternity, leaving Clint flooded with relief when he lifted his hips enough to let him strip them off. He tossed them to the side and started to take his shirt off when Phil held up a hand.

“Not that the view wouldn’t be appreciated, but I think at least one of us really should stay clothed this time,” he said thickly. 

Clint stared down at him from where he was kneeling between his thighs. Phil was propping himself up against the pillows, his whole body coiled and tense, his cock hard and leaking against his belly, his eyes dark and hungry. He swallowed and nodded.

“That...might not be a bad idea,” he agreed. Not if they wanted to keep this within previously established parameters. 

Phil looked let a wet dream, and there was no way _not_ to want more of him, but renegotiating boundaries during the act was flirting with disaster. He dropped his hands to Phil’s bent knees and stroked his thighs, thrilling at the way the contact sent a shiver through Phil’s frame, his customary self-possession failing him. Clint ran his hands up Phil’s chest and finally leaned forward, stretching out over him and kissing him slowly. He shifted his weight to one arm and snaked the other back between them, finding Phil’s cock and stroked it lightly. Phil grunted and bucked up before deliberately stilling himself, the set of his jaw speaking to gritted teeth and eroding control. Clint repeated the motion with more firmness, and Phil’s fingers dug into the sheets.

“If you keep that up, I’m not going to last much longer,” he said, his voice raw. Clint looked at him--his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut, his face flushed--and had a near-overwhelming urge to keep going, to watch him come like this, to feel his legs tighten around him and his body finally relax under him.

“If you didn’t, I wouldn’t be disappointed. You’re gorgeous like this,” he whispered, brushing a light kiss over his throat. Phil shook slightly, and his cock throbbed in Clint’s hand.

So much, he thought, for the idea that Phil was just humoring him. He moved back down Phil’s chest, caressing and kissing as he went, his neglected cock aching insistently every time Phil reacted to his touch. He’d never have guessed Phil could be so responsive. He’d never have hoped that he could _make_ him so responsive. 

Clint took a deep breath, wrapped his lips around Phil’s length, and sucked firmly, taking him all in in one go. He gasped and arched up in a half-arrested response, and when Clint worked his tongue along the shaft, he managed to wring a choked cry out of him. He jerked his fly open at that, clumsy in his distraction, and freed his own erection. He stroked himself hard as he pulled almost entirely off Phil’s cock only to plunge back down again without warning, precome slicking his tongue and smearing his lips. Phil twisted and groaned under him, his knees squeezing Clint’s shoulders. He raised his eyes to watch Phil’s face contort as he slowly flicked his glans with the tip of his tongue, all hint of the bland facade he usually projected completely obliterated. When Phil moaned again, he pulled back and came in his fist, clinging to Phil’s thigh and groaning through his climax.

He caught his breath and loosened his hold, running his hand over Phil’s leg. Phil started to pull himself together, his look still lust-fogged but closer to the alert containment he normally had. He pushed himself up, and Clint, bewildered, sat back on his heels.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“What?” It was Phil’s turn to look confused. “No, of course not.”

“Then why...?” He wiped the come off his hand on the back of his shirt self-consciously and gestured.

Phil flushed. “I don’t know if you noticed, but you seem to have finished, Barton.”

“You haven’t,” Clint pointed out. Phil’s cock was still as hard as it had been when Clint had had his tongue wrapped around it. He pressed him back against the mattress and kissed him, impatiently coaxing Phil’s mouth open. After a long moment, he turned his head so his lips were against Phil’s ear. “Please let me get you off. I want to.”

Clint took his earlobe between his teeth and ran his tongue along the edge while he ground his hips against him. Phil squirmed under him and finally nodded.

“Thank you,” Clint murmured.

It didn’t take him long to bring Phil back to the edge; as ready as he’d been to assume Clint was done, _he_ certainly hadn’t been. This time, though, he seemed more determined to keep himself in check. Clint considered the gauntlet thrown down and set about methodically undermining that control, bringing him close to climax and then easing back until he was panting and moaning and shaking under him, his white-knuckled fists clenched around handfuls of blanket. He ran his hands over Phil’s legs, feeling his muscles trembling from the strain of trying to keep still, and licked his way up the underside of Phil’s cock. He flicked his tongue along his slit, then let the length of Phil’s shaft slide all the way down his throat when he bobbed back down. He tried swallowing around him, remembering how good it felt when Phil had done the same to him, and Phil came with a strangled whimper. He kept sucking and swallowing until Phil managed a breathless, barely coherent demand that he stop. 

Clint surveyed the wreck he’d made of him and covered his smirk by wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. Phil looked dazed and boneless and completely unstrung as he lay there, trying to get his breath back. Clint crawled up the bed and curled against him, then threw one arm over his chest and wriggled closer.

“Not too much of an imposition, I hope?” he asked, his lips moving against the back of Phil’s neck. Phil shivered and shook his head. His eyes fluttered open, and he had the look of someone valiantly trying to fight off sleep.

“You should head back to your own bed,” he muttered, rubbing his face. 

Clint sighed. Of course he should. He just didn’t want to, to the point that he’d been half-hoping Phil was too gone to say anything. After a long moment, Phil started to get up, and Clint caught him by the shoulder and guided him back down.

“You should try to get some sleep,” he scolded quietly. He slipped off the bed, rearranged his pants, and straightened his shirt. He caught a look at himself in the mirror and tried to get the stupid smile off his face without success; all it took was a glance back at Phil, drained and sleepy and sprawled on the bed, and it was back at full force. He flipped the blanket over Phil, who shot him a look somewhere between exasperation and affection, finished his bourbon, and turned off the lights.

“Good night, Phil,” he sighed.

The reply was so soft he almost could have imagined it. “Good night, Clint.”

He padded back to his own room, peeled off his clothes, and crawled into bed. He burrowed into the blankets, hugged a pillow against his chest, and grinned at the warm buzz of his nerves and the way he could still smell Phil on his skin as he drifted off to sleep.


End file.
